The Mozzie and the Maid
by Dim Aldebaran
Summary: Sometimes, all a girl really needs is a mozzie... especially if said Girl is Hermione Granger, and said Mozzie has a taste for Older Women. Crack.


_the_

M O Z Z I E

_and the_

M A I D

- Dim Aldebaran -

_Written for The Humble Mosquito._

**:i:**

"I am an idiot," he muttered to himself, "a complete and utter _idiot—_"

Though the statement is, perhaps, never quite worthy of debate, it stood as testament to the unexpected and uncharacteristic flood of uncertainty he found himself deluged with.

He was not one for crowds, but sometimes those circumstances happen to be _opportune_ circumstances, and he could not help but laugh at those too-familiar absurdities and be tugged along with the ebb and flow of the tidal train station.

Those 'opportune circumstances' were not altogether rare ones, being of a yearly occurrence, but a flush of testosterone had lent this particular adolescent with the impatience and all-around belligerence that, though quite characteristic of his generation, seemed at odds with the singular intelligence and self-righteous attitude his appearance implicated.

His chosen outpost was one of least conspicuousness: one inhabited by any individual waiting for one of intimate acquaintance to step off of the ten o'clock train into some thoroughly rehearsed sentimental garbage.

He smiled, and shifted against the wall, adjusting to a more comfortable slouch. Except—he wasn't waiting for someone to get off: he was waiting for someone to get _on._

He settled deeper into his role as _le jeune amoureux_ (an easy one, admittedly) and scanned the crowds. Ratifications came before his eyes: a book bound with worn leather clutched to a girl's chest, bright eyes peaking out beneath a wide-rimmed hat, the tang of old copper, the swoosh of a cape—

_I was right all along_, he thought to himself, leaning on the wall across from platform 9 3/4.

Studiously, he kept his eyes wandering. A fixed gaze would attract attention; attention that might spoil it all. However, he kept a peripheral eye out for her—_her_, not one of intimate acquaintance as of now, but with luck, would be so tonight.

It seemed an eternity: of watching each of the candidates slip away into their world through the wall, of feeling the wrench of his stomach as the laws of physics were so carelessly disregarded, of watching his mind slip away with each laughing, percolating teenager…

When he saw his target, he found himself staring, consciously ignoring the fact that this would indeed attract attention. He would be attracting a fair bit of it in just a moment anyway, after all.

He straightened, and walked exactly four meters over, then stopped and faced away from the wall. The crowds surged in front of him, around him; the only difference was that walking his way was Hermione Granger, and she looked most displeased.

At first, her reaction was predictable; turning and walking in another direction, waiting for the annoying Muggle to move away from the point of entry. When she turned back, seeing that he had not moved nor did he appear to have any intention of doing so, her lips moved in some sort of thought, and then—their eyes met, and her eyes widened with the realization that he was standing there with full knowledge of what that wall _was_.

She swept over to him; the years had done her good in the aesthetics department. The frizz had been evened out to loose curls of brown falling about her face, and her facial features had sharpened with age, from the high jut of her cheekbones to the fine brown eyes, dark with irritation. Her sense of style had developed as well: her robe clung in all the right places for the viewing pleasure of an adolescent of the male species, and, he could not help but note, her long fingers were not graced by any ring—

So intent was he on admiring her physical appearance that her first words were barely registered. "I must ask you to stand aside. There are others that still need to board, not to mention—"

"—yourself," he finished. Somehow—_somehow—_his voice was clean and edged with just the right amount of self-confidence to avoid the term 'arrogance'.

Her brow arched delicately. The years had also done her good in the expressive department, it would appear. "Then by all means, student, stand aside. It would be a pity for you to have a detention on your first day at Hogwarts."

He blinked, and a high flush mounted his cheeks. She thought he was a student!—a wizard-to-be, as he had never even been given the chance to become... "I am afraid," he said with all the bravado he could muster, "that I do not fall under your jurisdiction, Miss Granger."

Her eyes narrowed. "You _do _fall under my jurisdiction—I am a Professor of Hogwarts, and you are impeding a Hogwarts function. If you do not move, I will be forced to take action."

His heart skipped a bit as her arm lowered, a slender wand appearing in her hand. He knew full well that she knew how to use it; he had done his research, after all. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said quickly.

Her brow arched. "Oh? Do tell."

He jabbed his thumb in an arbitrary direction, towards the surging crowds. Some people—some _Muggles_—were already starting to look their way. "We are in a crowded public location. Any act of magic will require a subsequent mass _obliviate_ that will be—_extremely_ messy for the Ministry. It will also be very difficult for you to explain to the authorities precisely why a Muggle knew of this gate, since you will be entirely discredited in their eyes after several anonymous letters report to the likes of Rita Skeeter that you have been consorting with a particular Muggle—which will, by the way, send unless I have the _memory_ to intervene."

"Am I being _blackmailed?!_" Hermione interrupted, her voice a fierce whisper.

"Absolutely," he said blithely. Now that he had gotten going, he was beginning to enjoy himself. "Furthermore, any magical act committed against a Muggle will result in yet another investigation, which will involve more paperwork than I'd think you'd care to handle. Not to mention more than a few angry parents, students and—_professors_ that will be demanding an explanation for all this, which you will of course be loathe to provide."

Hermione stared for a moment, taking it in; and then sighed, rubbing at her temple in resignation. "And the price for you stepping away?"

His heart suddenly took a flying leap and got lodged in his throat in a most uncomfortable manner on the way down. "Dinner for two."

The emotions on her face changed rapidly: from shock, to disgust, to anger, and then finally to disbelief. "Are you _mad?!_"

"Maybe," he said, his heart suddenly dislodging, sliding down and flopping about in his stomach like a fish fresh from the net. "But that is quite besides the point. The train is leaving in five minutes, with or without you and the remaining students." He cocked his head. "Your choice, really."

She blinked, rapidly. "When?"

"Tonight."

She stared. "But tonight—"

"—is the Hogwart's feast." He smiled. "However, it also _happens_ to be the only night I could manage reservations."

She buried her head in her hands. "Right—_reservations_, for a _dinner _for_ two,_" she muttered. "Why not just call it a 'date' then?"

"If you insist." His heart drummed like the cadence of a train… "Four minutes left, by the way, and those students behind you are starting to look _pissed _if I do say so myself—"

She snapped quite cleanly. Her voice took on the cool tones of the defeated businesswoman. "When and where?"

He passed her a business card; _Chez Fritz_, in downtown London. "Seven sharp."

"Thanks for the consideration," she said sarcastically.

"Thanks for the date," he replied, and moved aside.

She didn't look back.

On his way out of the train station, some would turn and stare at the teenage boy who, with a mad grin on his face, was whistling a very-off key _Hedwig's Theme_. No one had the heart to tell him off.

**:i:**

She arrived early; presumably, to get it over with.

Hermione settled in her chair and went right to business: "I am a little afraid to ask, but—in Merlin's name, _why_?"

"Because I wanted to," he said, as if it explained everything in the world more clearly than any answer derived from base thirteen or purportedly witty French phrases.

Her hands went to her hair, lacing through it. "_Adults _do things because they _ought _to. _Children _do things because they _want_ to."

"And yet, children are the happiest."

"They're also the most ignorant."

"Are you saying that children are immoral because they're ignorant?"

She draped her cloak over the back of her seat; clearly, she'd rather not have any Muggle maitre d' handle it. "You are not _ignorant_, so you are not a _child_. Thus you know _perfectly_ well what you _ought_ to have done, and you _didn't_. So you are a child, and I am going to eat a blameless dinner, ignoring you in the process, and forget all of this ever happened afterwards." She buried herself in a glass of ice water, muttering, "For Merlin's sake, I'll have to obliviate _myself_ to stop being ashamed."

"So I'm not worth your time." He smiled bitterly. "The great Hermione Granger: I had imagined her to be open minded, and here she is, the most close-minded of them all."

A brow cocked. "My mind is wide open right now. Unfortunately, there is a certain lack of—shall we say, _positive influences _on it at the present?" She adjusted her chair relative to the table. "Now, again. Dinner implies that you wish to talk. Otherwise you would have had us go to the dark movie theater, where you would have all the privacy in the world to play the charmer on me." She smiled with an edge. "No pun intended of course. So: what is it that you found so pressingthat you wished to discuss it with a mere teacher of Hogwarts?"

"Us," he said blithely.

She looked up from her water, staring. "…us."

He nodded with a certain amount of enthusiasm. "Now, I don't expect anything right away, of course. I expect a certain amount of resistance from you, which I shall courageously ignore and in the end, exhausted by the struggle, you will give in to the particular charms of my character and we shall make a controversial pair that will shake the very foundations of both the Wizarding and Muggle worlds. It will also involve yetis and trysts by starlight."

She blinked. "I… see."

"I don't expect you do," he continued on, "but at any rate, the server's come. Order whatever you'd like; I'm paying."

"From your lunch money undoubtedly," Hermione said scathingly. "I'll pay, since out of the two of us, I'm the only one with a job."

The waiter addressed Hermione. "What would you like to drink, madame?"

"_Mademoiselle_," he corrected sweetly.

Hermione sent him a glare and then turned to the waiter. "Earl Gray; the good stuff, if you have it. None of that Stash trash."

The waiter nodded in assurance, not expecting her to notice the difference, and then turned to him. "And you?"

"Got any perky juice?" he asked sarcastically. Seeing the waiter's confusion, he waved it aside. "Pepsi, then."

The waiter nodded and walked away, depositing menus as he went. Before any further banter could be engaged in, he returned with the beverages.

Hermione took to the tea. Stash; she grimaced, but decided against making a fuss of it. Bad tea was only one of many things she would need to forget of this night.

He examined his menu with great interest; but his mind was on a decidedly different track. "Just so you know I'm not a complete imbecile," he began, "I'm from good ol' Crawley. I'd call myself intelligent, but then you'd call me arrogant, so I'd have to find the proper examination papers to prove it, but that's _such_ a muddle so I really can't be bothered." He pointed at himself, as intending for her to note the certain blotched quality to his skin. "Young, too. I heard some like it that way." He flashed a brilliant smile, then continued. "I like football, quite a bit, in fact. But really, literature is my _one true love_." He folded his arms and tried to look rather dashing. If 'dashing' is here defined as 'resembling an undercooked sausage with little red and white bits with a brown flop of intestines on top', then he succeeded in a most spectacular fashion.

"Name?"

He stood a little straighter. "His Tyrannical Majesty, King Mosquito the Humble, Lord of Crim, Chief Manipulator of Teh Yeti, and Bearer of the Shinest Wings in Insectdom." Then he added, "But you may call me Mozzie."

"How gracious of you," she muttered, then louder, "Well, _Mozzy_, I thought long and hard on what I would—"

"Mozzie."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"It's _Mozzie_," he repeated, "with an 'i-e'. Never with a 'y'."

She stared for a moment, then continued. "Mozzie. Now, I thought long and hard on what to say to you. After all, you are—" Her hands made a useless gesture in the air. "You are not the most impossible thing that has happened to me, but of all the candidates you are the most _unlikely_."

He had the wit to take a bow.

Her face twisted into a grin. "What are you—fourteen, fifteen?"

"Sixteen!" he said with a certain amount of mortification.

She grimaced. "Are you aware that I am in my late twenties?—I've got you beat by more than a decade."

"I never thought that age would matter."

"Age doesn't; maturity does."

"I would like to assure you, Hermione, that I am most mature for my age."

"Your actions point to the contrary," Hermione snapped, "and it's _Miss Granger_ to you."

He looked deeply offended. "My actions were necessary in order to arrange this; how else can I possibly reliably start contact with someone in the Wizarding world?"

"That shows cleverness, not maturity," Hermione countered, "and cleverness does not amuse me."

"Really," Mozzie said. "You were described as 'clever' on many occasions, and you always seemed to take it as a compliment."

A blush rose in her cheeks; as it might have in a teenager. "There is a difference to cleverness _with_ an end, and cleverness _as_ an end." He smirked into his glass of Pepsi, and her blush heightened. "And at any rate, you have _no_ _right_ to be meddling in our affairs! I am missing the first Feast of the year because of you, and—_imagine_ for a moment how it was for me to explain the reason for my absence to Headmistress McGonagall! 'I am sorry, but I cannot attend the Feast tonight, _even though_ it is quite mandatory for all staff. Why? Well—may I call you Minnie? Anyway—a Muggle boy coerced me into having dinner with him in an overpriced restaurant in London, versus enjoying the slave-made vittles here. I hope you don't mind much. Love the hat, by the way.'"

Mozzie laughed. "Don't tell me you don't find this situation _flattering_, at the very least."

She bristled. "I am an _intellectual_. Flattery is the least of my concerns."

"An intellectual is someone who has discovered something more interesting than sex," Mozzie said, then added, "But of course, there's no telling _what_ that thing is."

She stared for a moment—then _laughed_. In his head, Mozzie likened it to the triumphant ringing of clarion bells. "Aldous Huxley!"

He smirked. "Of course."

She smiled broadly. "I cannot _tell _you how long it's been since I have talked to anyone who's read Aldous Huxley! There's not a Wizard in the world that will read Muggle literature if they can help it, and never—_ever_ the likes of Aldous Huxley. They have such a disregard for Muggle science, especially science _fiction,_ even in this day and age… Every once in a while one will crack open a good tome of Tolkien for laughing value, but by and large…" She trailed off, looking very frustrated with Wizards in general.

"Have you read Wells?" Mozzie asked.

"But of course!" Hermione said, and then—_winked_. "Big brother's watching you."

He laughed, leaning back in his chair. "And—do tell, but Joyce?"

She rolled her eyes. "The person who can write like that must be perfectly sane; the person who can read like that must be perfectly mad."

"An almost, I take it."

She smiled, almost wistfully. "If I was less of a coward regarding the truly complex, I would have tried harder; but there was always _my _perspective, _my _way of viewing things, preventing me from really understanding… and know-it-alls just don't have the right way with words. I can never make sense of _them, _let alone what they write."

Mozzie smiled too; bitterly, or longingly? "I know the feeling…"

They sat in silence for long minutes; contemplating the occasion in an aggravated sort of serenity.

Eventually, she leaned forward, and met his eyes. There was a peculiar softness to them, he noticed abruptly: something warm and safe and—affectionate about them. "You know, Mozzie… There's something I'd like to do right now… something I've _read_ about, before…"

His heart was doing Olympic hurtles somewhere in the track of his throat. "What?" he managed, somewhat hoarsely.

She learned in; he could see the delicate veins on her eyelids, the curve of her lashes… He took a shuddering breath and forced himself to pay attention her words, versus her—_charms_.

When she spoke, he could not help but stare awkwardly at the slight movements of her lips, smooth and soft. "A tradition… a rite of passage, if you will. I heard it's a very… _satisfactory_ experience."

The blood rushed to his cheeks. "Uh—"

"I'm willing if you're willing."

He could only nod. Her breath was hot against his cheeks.

"Close your eyes…."

He obliged, leaning in further—

"_Obliviate_," she murmured, her wand slipping between them.

It would leave him with only a lingering fascination for EmmaWatson.

**:i:**

Commissioned by The Humble Mosquito several months ago: the OTP of MozzieHermione. I figure I owe it to the OA crowd to post it for viewing pleasure before I off from them.

Spew whatever comments you'd like, really. I (still) don't like this piece in the slightest.


End file.
